


What's in a Name?

by lostinafictionalworld



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, a sad excuse to break napoleon and have illya and gaby take care of him, and to give napoleon a tad more backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 20:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6438505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostinafictionalworld/pseuds/lostinafictionalworld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His eyes blinked open in surprise. 'Only my mother calls me Napoleon,' he said automatically, though the sounded more confused than annoyed."</p>
<p>Napoleon is captured and tortured when a mission goes wrong. In the aftermath, Illya and Gaby learn a bit more about their teammate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's in a Name?

**Author's Note:**

> The torture happens offscreen but please be warned that there are a few descriptions of injuries that may bother those who are squeamish.

Things had been going pretty well. In fact, things had been going very well; they now had four successful missions under their belt and were quickly getting to know each other’s strengths and quirks and how best to work as a team. But as always with statistics, their spectacular success would eventually regress to the mean; something had to go wrong eventually.

The mission should have been simple. Their mark—an arms dealer based in the south of France who liked to keep various mobs and mafias well supplied—was supposed to be at a gala all evening, leaving his chateau, and subsequently his study, empty. Illya had been running surveillance all week, analyzing the security system and the rotations of the guards. Gaby had even made it inside the compound for a quick look around, posing as a delivery courier. With the alarms bypassed and a quick sketch of the floor plan in hand, all Solo had to do was break into the study, plant a few bugs so they would have ears in the office, and get the cargo manifests out of the hidden safe so they could see how the weapons were being moved out of the country. It was all planned out.

What they hadn’t planned on was their surly, quick-tempered mark hitting it off with a charming young lady and leaving the gala early to bring her home with him. Gaby saw the returning cars first as they passed the secluded spot where she had parked their getaway car a half-mile from the estate.

“We have a problem,” she said tersely, her voice crackling into Solo and Illya’s earpieces. “Laurent is back. They just passed my position, his car and the second for his guards.”  
From his position on the wooded hill just outside the perimeter wall, Illya saw the familiar headlights turn down the long driveway toward the house and cursed under his breath.

“I see them. Cowboy, get out now. You have one minute, maybe less.”

“Copy,” Solo’s voice crackled back. “On my way.”

“Do you want me to bring the car closer?” Gaby asked.

“No,” Solo replied, “it’ll draw too much attention. I’ll meet up with Peril outside the wall and we’ll come to you.”

The connection went silent and Illya watched with mounting anxiety as the cars reached the house. The mark and a woman got out of the first car, four bodyguards from the second, and they disappeared into the main house. Seconds later, alarms sounded and floodlights flashed on all around, illuminating the entire compound. He saw Solo slip out a side window and start across the compound to the fence, but by that point guards were swarming across the grounds. Gunshots rang out and Solo faltered and slowed. Within a minute the guards overtook him and three dragged him away into one of the small outbuildings, leaving a dozen others sweeping the compound.

0 0 0

Illya had to wait forty-five torturous minutes before going in after Solo. He had wanted to charge in immediately but Gaby, ever the voice of reason, had convinced him to wait. It was simply too dangerous to go in with so many guards about and Illya would do Solo no good if he got captured or killed himself. Illya was skilled, but he couldn’t face a dozen armed men, spread out over the grounds as they were.

So he waited, shaking with nervous energy, and watched. He saw their mark enter the building a few minutes after they brought Solo in, then leave again five minutes later with one of the guards. There was no sign of the other two guards who had captured Solo, so Illya assumed they were still inside. Finally floodlights dimmed and the guards outside resumed their usual patrol, the extra support returning to their quarters. He waited a few minutes more to be safe.

Finally the coast seemed clear. Illya moved out of the safety of the trees and approached the wall. The ten-foot stone mass topped with razor wire would have deterred most, but he and Solo had cleared a section of the wire earlier so Solo could get in and Illya was so tall that he could easily jump, catch hold of the ledge, and carefully pull himself up. He quickly surveyed the compound below before dropping lightly to the ground. As much as Illya wanted to violently murder all of the guards to get Solo back, he knew for the sake of the mission and to avoid drawing unwanted attention to himself that he should refrain. He carefully made his way through the compound and entered the building he had seen them take Napoleon to. 

The hallway inside was dim and ran the length of the small building to another exterior door at the far end. Two doors opened off the hallway to the right and a guard was standing in front of the far one, looking the opposite direction. Thirty seconds later, the guard was unconscious on his feet. Illya eased open the door and saw Solo on the far side of a dingy office, bound hand and foot to a wooden armchair. As he silently slipped inside, he saw the remaining guard slug Solo in the face, leaving his head to sag heavily against his shoulder. Illya walked up behind the guard and snapped his neck before the man knew he was there.

“Cowboy?” Illya asked, voice laced with concern. He knelt in front of Solo who slowly blinked his eyes open at the sound of Illya’s voice and struggled to lift his head.

“Always nice to see you, Peril,” he replied. His voice was raspy but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “How about you get me out of here?”

Illya drew out a knife to cut the ropes and quickly tried to assess the damage. He didn’t like what he saw. Solo was bleeding sluggishly from his nose and a gash across his temple and a bruise was already spreading across one cheek. Illya was willing to bet the rest of his torso was a similar patchwork of bruises.

“I heard gunfire,” Illya said as he cut the ropes around Solo’s chest, quickly steadying him as he sagged forward. “Were you hit?”

“Grazed my calf,” Solo replied tiredly. “But it’s nothing serious. Just enough for them to catch me.”

Illya inspected the injury quickly as he slashed through the ropes binding Solo’s legs to the chair. His entire pant leg from the knee down was tacky with blood but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. Illya cut away the fabric at the knee and tied it around the wound as a makeshift bandage. 

“Those pants were expensive,” Solo sighed woefully, his breath catching as Illya pulled the fabric tight.

“They were already ripped,” Illya deadpanned back. “And you never would have got the stains out anyway.”

The only bonds left were the ones holding Solo’s arms to the chair. The damage to his hands was the worst of all. The fingers on both hands were a mottled purple and were bent at unnatural angles, clearly either broken or dislocated. Illya sucked in a sharp breath at the sight. He cut the ropes and Solo let out a sharp gasp as the circulation suddenly returned to his hands. His eyes were screwed shut and he was breathing hard like he was trying not to pass out.

“Apparently our friendly neighborhood arms dealer doesn’t take too well to thieves,” Solo said when he got his breath back. “Especially when they interrupt his dates. I’d hate to think what he’d do to a spy.”

“He doesn’t know?” Illya asked, surprised.

“I’d already planted the bugs. I ditched the earpiece and grabbed his collection of antique coins on my way out. Figured it was better for him to know he was robbed than suspect he was being spied on. Didn’t get the manifests but at least we have ears and our mission’s not completely blown.” Solo’s voice faded out the longer he talked.

“Nicely done, Cowboy,” Illya said, impressed how well he’d salvaged the mission despite the circumstances. “Perhaps you’re not such a terrible spy after all. But now it’s time to leave. Can you walk?” He took Solo by the upper arm and slowly maneuvered him out of the chair. He swayed precariously for a moment, dizzied by the change in position. 

“After you,” Solo said, finally regaining his balance. Illya looped an arm around his waist and he let out a grunt of pain at the pressure on his battered ribs, but otherwise stayed silent. They slowly made their way back into the hallway, past the still unconscious guard, and out of the building.

By some stroke of luck there were no guards in sight and they hurried to the wall, though much more slowly than Illya would have like. Solo’s limp grew more pronounced and he sagged more and more heavily against Illya with every step. But the time they reached the wall he was gasping for breath.

They were suddenly confronted by the looming problem of the wall. To get in, they had both just jumped and pulled themselves over, but Solo was in no condition to do that now.

“Can’t we just use the front gate?” He asked wistfully. Illya shook his head.

“Too risky. If I lift you, can you make it to the top?”

“It’s not like I have much of a choice,” Solo sighed. “Let’s do it then.”

Illya laced his fingers together so Solo could step on them with his good leg and boosted him into the air. Solo gave a cry of pain as his mangled hands came into contact with the wall but he managed to scramble up to the top and balance there until Illya joined him and dropped to the other side. Solo slid off the wall, Illya slowing his descent. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he slumped against the wall, wretching as his body protested the pain and excess motion. Illya kept a steadying hand on his arm to keep him upright.

After a long minute, Solo straightened himself up as best as he could. 

“Lead on, Peril.” Illya carefully looped an arm around his waist once more, this time much slower now that they’d made it out of the compound.

“Gaby,” Illya said, “we’re out. Bring the car around to the rendezvous point.”

“Copy,” Gaby’s voice crackled back, relief clear in her voice.

By the time they reached the pick up point, a spot in the tree line a quarter mile down the road, Gaby was waiting with the car, it’s engine idling quietly. Illya was practically carrying Solo, though he was still doing his best to put one foot in front of the other. Illya yanked open the back door and gently lowered Solo onto the seat. Solo moaned quietly as the motion jostled his injuries. Illya hurried around the car to climb next to him, offering his shoulder to lean against. Solo slumped against him gratefully.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Solo,” Gaby teased gently as she pulled the car onto the road, not even trying to hide the relief in her voice. “It’s rude to keep a lady waiting.” Solo gave a quiet huff of laughter.

“My apologies. I really must be more punctual next time.” He let his eyes drift shut, the adrenaline leaving his system now that he was safely in the car. Illya prodded his shoulder gently.

“No, Cowboy. Stay awake.”

“Must I?” he asked wearily, forcing his eyes open again. “Because I would really love to pass out right about now.” His remark was punctuated with a hiss of pain as the car went over a pothole.

“Not with a head wound,” Illya said firmly. “Sleep and concussions don’t mix.”

“Tell us a story,” Gaby suggested. “You love to talk so it shouldn’t be too difficult for you.” She glanced back at him in the mirror and saw that he had sagged further onto Illya’s shoulder, his eyes slipping shut again.

“Napoleon!” she reproached, voice edged with worry. “Focus.” His eyes blinked open in surprise.

“Only my mother calls me Napoleon,” he said automatically, though he sounded more confused than annoyed.

“Why?” Gaby asked, quickly latching onto any topic that might keep him talking. “What do your friends call you then?”

“You call me Solo,” he pointed out. “Peril here calls me Cowboy.”

“Well, obviously, Gaby sighed,” but what about your other friends?”

“What other friends?” he asked tiredly. Any other day he might have deflected or hidden behind bravado and a grin, but today he didn’t have the energy. “I haven’t had a friend since I joined the army.” The car was uncomfortably silent for a long moment save for Solo’s shallow breathing.

“What did your school friends call you, then?” Illya asked finally, suddenly realizing they might have more in common than he thought.

“Solo, if I could help it.” He sounded so tired.

“What’s wrong with Napoleon?” Gaby asked.

“Well, when you’re a short, pudgy eight-year-old in boarding school, there’s a lot wrong with it.” He closed his eyes but kept talking. “I was already a bit of a misfit because my family didn’t have a lot of money. My father was a janitor, came over from Ireland for a better life. My mother was a typist for a law firm. They worked so hard to send me to a good school so I could have a better life than them. But that didn’t mean I fit in. When you’re the poor kid named after an emperor, the gentle kid named after a general, there’s a lot to make fun of.”

“That is unfair,” Illya said angrily. “It’s not as if you chose your name.”

“People are mean, Peril,” Napoleon sighed. “It doesn’t have to be logical. I figured you would understand that.” Illya nodded grimly. He did understand.

“So I tried to be what they wanted me to be. I learned to be suave, charming. I picked up the mannerisms associated with class. I did well in my studies. Got by on being clever. I went by Solo since it’s easier to be the loner than the little general. Teachers called us by our last names anyway. It wasn’t a stretch to have my peers do the same.” He trailed off, his voice fading the longer he talked. 

“So what about in the army?” Gaby prompted, worried by his silence.

“Still just Solo. Everybody went by last names. Didn’t really have friends anyway. I was only in for a few months before the war ended, but it was long enough to see a lot of good men die. Seemed easier to not get close to anyone. And it’s hard to trust people when you’re a thief. Then it was the CIA. They don’t exactly encourage personal relationships that could compromise missions.”

“So you haven’t had a friend since you were eighteen?” Gaby asked incredulously.

“Sixteen,” Solo corrected.

“Your file says you enlisted at eighteen,” Illya protested, confused and a bit annoyed at the hole in his knowledge.

“Then whoever wrote it can’t do math,” he scoffed, then winced. “I enlisted early. They were too busy looking for draft dodgers to care about someone sneaking in. I am a forger after all. Had to start somewhere.”

“So why’d you do it?” Gaby asked. “Patriotism or profiteering?” He sighed quietly.

“Profiteering, then, if you insist on using such mercenary terms. My father died. My mother still had her job as a typist but business wasn’t great. It was barely enough to support us, let alone keep me at boarding school. So I enlisted. Figured I would get drafted in eventually. Thought I could send her my pay and she wouldn’t have to worry about taking care of me.” He paused for a minute, winded, but continued without prompting.

“It took me a while to figure out how lucrative the art market could be, but after that it didn’t take long to realize how good I was at it. At first I told myself that it was for my mother, to give her the good life she’d wanted for me. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t appreciate the luxury. I liked finally being able to look and live the part after years of just acting it. 

“And look where it’s gotten me now,” he sighed regretfully. “I haven’t spoken to my mother in over ten years. The CIA made sure of that. Part of my deal was that she would get my military pension, but as I said before, they don’t encourage personal attachments for their tools. For all I know, they told her I was dead.”

“Well, at the moment it’s gotten you home,” Gaby announced, pulling up in front of small cottage that was their safehouse for the duration of the mission. Solo gave a sigh of relief.

Gaby hurried up to the house, unlocking the doors and turning on the lights while Illya slowly levered Solo out of the car and helped him into the house. By the time Illya eased him onto the sofa, Gaby had collected their first aid kit, a bowl of warm water, and two towels full of ice.

“Your fingers need to be set before there’s any lasting damage,” Gaby said, carefully elevating each of them on a stack of pillows, “but the swelling needs to go down a bit first.” She gently laid the towels of ice across them. Solo screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip hard to keep from crying out. 

“Could I get some painkillers? Or some scotch? Maybe both?” He asked when the pain had subsided enough for him to talk.

“Not both,” Illya said sternly. “No mixing medication and alcohol. And no alcohol with blood loss.”

“You’re no fun,” Solo groused weakly. He opened his mouth for the two pills Gaby offered him and eagerly gulped down the glass of water she carefully tipped into his mouth.

Illya looked at his left hand in growing concern. The gold signet ring had cut off the circulation to his swollen pinky, turning it a deep, ugly purple.

“Your ring needs to come off.”

“I know,” he sighed. “Just cut it off. My fence cutters should be in my case somewhere.”

“I guess your low-tech tools are not quite so useless after all,” Illya snorted as he left to go find them.

Gaby knelt and unlaced his shoes, tugging them off so he’d be more comfortable and propping his injured leg up on the coffee table. A moment later Illya returned.

“You know,” Solo said conversationally as Illya gently took his hand in his own larger one, “my lovely tormentor actually offered to cut it off for me as well. Though I think he planned to do it while it was still attached to my finger. It’s probably better he didn’t.” Gaby shuddered at the thought. A moment later, Illya carefully snipped the ring on either side of the signet, the super hardened blades easily slicing through the soft gold. Solo let out a muffled cry as the two halves of the ring fell away and circulation rushed back into the abused finger.

“Sorry,” Illya said regretfully as he replaced the ice. He carefully set the broken ring on the corner of the table.

“Tell us about the ring,” he asked a moment later, trying to distract him as he started cleaning the gash on his forehead. Solo hissed in pain as Gaby started working on his leg.

“It’s the Roman god Janus,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper, “the two-faced god of gateways, decisions, and beginnings. It was supposed to be good luck to pass through his gates when heading off to war and he had a particular interest in travelers and traders. I thought it was fitting. It’s also where the word janitor comes from, so you could also say it’s a family crest in a way. I enjoy the duality of it.”

He fell silent, out of words and energy, as Gaby finished wrapping his leg. Illya taped a bandage in place over his forehead and quickly wiped away the dried blood from his nose, which fortunately didn’t appear broken.

“Time to do your hands,” Illya announced apologetically. Solo just sighed in resignation. 

They carefully maneuvered him so he was sitting lengthwise on the sofa, practically in Illya’s lap with his back resting against Illya’s chest. The bigger man held him steady as Gaby took his hand and popped the first joint back into place. He let out a choked sob and bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry,” She gave him a few moments’ respite, then quickly straightened the next finger. His head fell back heavily against Illya’s shoulder as he passed out.

“Napoleon?” she said anxiously. “Napoleon, wake up.”

“Leave him be,” Illya said quietly. “He seemed coherent enough that he should be okay for a short while. It will be easier for him to be unconscious for this anyway.” Gaby nodded grimly and quickly set to work straightening the rest of his fingers. He let out an involuntary whimper with each one but didn’t wake. Twenty minutes later Gaby had finished setting and carefully splinting each of his fingers.

“Rise and shine, Cowboy,” Illya said, lightly slapping his face. “Time to wake up.” After several anxious seconds, Solo gave a prolonged groan and slowly clawed his way back into wakefulness.

“Your hands are all done,” Gaby reassured him. “Anything else we missed?”

“My ribs don’t feel so great,” he replied after a long moment of consideration. “I don’t think any are broken but a few are definitely bruised, maybe cracked.”

They gingerly maneuvered him upright so Illya could slip out from behind him and gently wrestle him out of his black jacket and turtleneck. A quick inspection of his black and purple mottled torso revealed three cracked, which Illya carefully wrapped. When he’d finished, Solo slumped back against the couch, eyes falling shut again.

“Nope, bed,” Gaby ordered. “You’ll regret it in the morning if you stay here.”

“I don’t think I could stand right now if I wanted to,” Solo admitted honestly.

“Fine,” Illya replied easily. He bent and scooped him up as if he weighed nothing, one arm behind his shoulder, the other behind his knees. Solo was too exhausted to even protests. Illya deposited him gently in the large feather bed and carefully rearranged his limbs so his hands and injured leg were elevated. Gaby placed fresh packs of ice on his hands and another on his forehead and draped him with a lightweight blanket to keep him warm. She curled up in an armchair next to the bed while Illya sat down on the bed next to him, leaning back against the headboard.

“Go to sleep, Cowboy,” Illya ordered gently. “We’ll keep watch and wake you in a while to check your head.” Within a minute he was asleep.

0 0 0

“Time for twenty questions,” Gaby announced quietly when she gently shook him awake two hours later. The room was dark and Illya was snoring softly from where he was still propped against the headboard. Solo gave soft groan as Gaby helped him sit up and hissed in annoyance as she checked his eyes with a penlight.

“Name?” she asked.

“Napoleon Solo.”

“Year?”

“1964.” 

“Location?”

“Marseilles.” They continued for a few minutes until Gaby ran out of questions and was satisfied his head injury hadn’t done him any lasting harm. She fetched him another painkiller and glass of water, then helped him lay down again. She prodded Illya into wakefulness long enough to get him to lay down as well, then returned to sit on the edge of the mattress next to Solo. After a moment of hesitation, she ran a hand through his hair, gently massaging his scalp. His eyes slipped shut and he gave a pleased hum as he leaned slightly into the touch.

“You can call me Napoleon if you want,” he murmured sleepily a few minutes later. She stilled for a moment, the resumed carding her fingers through his hair. “It’s been a long time since anyone said it and meant it kindly.” She hummed softly in agreement.

“Go to sleep, Napoleon,” she whispered. “We’ll be here.” And Napoleon slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is my first fic for TMFU, which has recently destroyed my life, as well as my first attempt at whump, so I hope you all enjoyed it. Of course these wonderful characters are not my own and I apologize for damaging them. This fic is based on the movie, as I have not seen any of the show. I have a practically nonexistent knowledge of first aid so I apologize for any errors. Thanks for reading!


End file.
